The Land Alone
by Scarg
Summary: A short, wistful one-shot about Elves, with subtle undertones of whiny "It's not fair!"ness. The only characters who make an appearance are OC's. Sorry 'bout that.


_A/N: Just another quick little ficlet, of shoes and ships and ceiling-wax, of cabbages, and Elves. Mainly the latter. Some minor geneology for you guys: Barahir was Faramir of Ithilien's second son. As such, he did not inherit the position of Steward to the King, ergo neither did his son. Actually, I don't know if he had children, but for the purpose of this story, why not? _

_Disclaimer: I own very very little, and what I do own, I don't think anybody would want. Seeing as how many people do want The Lord of the Rings, I believe we can safely deduce that I do not own The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien's estate and whomever they have sold rights to do, however, own it._

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By a creek in the woods of Ithilien, a boy dawdled.  
  
As he walked on the sun-dappled forest path to his home upstream, he thought. That alone was not unusual; in fact, this boy was practically renowned among his peers for his thoughtfulness and dreamy disposition. However, the subject of his thought was a bit strange.  
  
While he and his friends had fished, his grandfather, the one who always handled their derelict wooden boat when they went out on their watery excursions, had told them a tale. He did so almost every occasion he could, being a great lover of tales of the old times – tales of the reign of King Elessar, the Elfstone. This day's tale had been mainly about creatures of legends, long-limbed, lithe creatures, creatures posessed of an uncanny grace and poise. Beings that would never be seen again in mortal realms – Elves.  
  
This was a topic that also seemed close to his grandfather's heart. After having been tentatively scoffed by the youths, Denethor, son of Barahir, had told his young grandson and his grandson's friends of the time he had met an Elf. A real, living Elf.  
  
According to the tale, he had been walking along a path leading north, to Minas Tirith, (much like the very trail the fishing party were following now) when he heard a song coming from behind him. Not just any song, but one whose tones were so heart-rendingly beautiful that he frozen when its first tendrils had tickled his ears. The song was in a strange tongue, one that seemed ancient beyond all measure of time, and underneath the quiet melody, Denethor heard the quick beat of a horse's hooves. He stopped, drawing himself back into the shadows of the trees, hoping they would shelter him from the sight of whoever followed him. When the person came into sight, he stared, stunned. The author of the haunting melody he had heard was an Elf! He watched as the dappled grey horse, bearing a slender male cloaked in an otherworldly light, drew near him. Curiously, when the rider came level with the tree the Man was pressed up against, he spared a glance for Denethor. Having finished his song, or as much of it as he intended to sing, the mounted Elf turned and as his gelding made his way further from the Man, the Elf looked straight at Barahir, and he had smiled.  
  
Denethor had been enthused by his tale. It was plain to see that he believed every word of it. Of course, this was all but a tale. Surely these beings could not be real. The boy's grandfather must've had another one of his spells, confusing what remained of his memory with the tales he had engraved in his very spirit. After all, how could Elves have ever been real? There was absolutely...  
  
"No chance of it," the boy declared, voicing his thoughts. Bending down to pick up a round, flat stone – perfect for skipping – he heard a sound. The boy froze in place, letting the breeze tease his dark hair. The same breeze had brought the sound of laughter, light, musical laughter to his ears only an instant ago. Or had it been but the song of birds?  
  
The passing sound of mirth had unnerved him and he now wanted to walk with others instead of alone. The boy shuddered, and, dismissing the sound, hurried up, calling out to his companions as he went.  
  
Had he lingered but a moment longer, he might've glimpsed an interesting play of light, shadow, and wind in the woods. Almost it would seem that a tall being moved there, drifting in between trees with a boneless ease. Almost it would seem that, again, laughter sounded. Almost it would seem that a figure might be seen, for those with the right way of looking.  
  
But these were but tricks that the tired mind could play. There were no more Elves in the woods of Ithilien, nor even in the entirety of Middle- Earth. They had all left, departed these desolate lands in favour of the Elvenhome, far beyond the western horizon. No more would people such as Denethor hear the Elves sing, no more would they be seen feasting and laughing. They were gone, and a fragile myth to the Men who remained.  
  
And when they fade out of tales, and the myths and legends forget them, and the fickle minds of Men lose all their memories, the land will remember them.

The land alone remembers.

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_To wrap things up all neat and tidy, a quote:  
  
'That is true,' said Legolas. 'But the Elves of this land were of a race strange to us of the silvan folk, and the trees and the grass do not now remember them. Only I hear the stones lament them:_ deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but they are gone._ They are gone. They sought the Havens long ago.'_

_Pg. 372 from The Fellowship of the Ring from the HarperCollins paperback book._


End file.
